The Vampire Hit man From San Francisco
By Joel Drotts J.D.
Chapter One
I was awakened by a call from Suzy, the girl whom most recently had caught the ire of my
attentions and affections, but unfortunately rebuffed my advances to be more then friends.
“Hello?” I said in a voice that couldn’t hide the fact the call had woke me up.
“Did I wake you up?” Suzy said in a genuinely concern tone.
“No…no... I’ve been awake. What’s going on?”
“Sorry… I didn’t get back to you last night. I fell asleep.”
“Oh that’s ok.” I said thinking to myself how glad I was I didn’t get over drunk the night
before, and text her some venomous booze induced text messages about the rudeness I find in
failures to respond to texts.
“What ‘sup, want to come over?”
“You’re just being polite.” She said.
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“Suzy, when have you ever known me to be polite?”
“Ok… I’ll be right over.” With that she hung up, and I put the phone down. A quick look
around the room confirmed that the clock read eight a.m., my ex-girlfriend Jennifer was asleep
on my couch, and I had a throbbing headache. “What the fuck????? Eight AM? Don’t these
people ever sleep? I just went to bed three hours ago!” I growled as I reached for my pack of
cigarettes, lighter and an ashtray, and moved them closer to the edge of the bed where I was
sitting. I lit a cigarette and exhaled, hoping the cigarette would make my headache go away. No
such luck. Moreover, I could already tell I’d be stuck with both the headache and my ex
girlfriend on the couch, until much more substantial matters were taken. Furthermore, I had
better deploy any measures to remove my real headache, or the one asleep on my couch, before
Suzy showed up.
I have about thirty minutes I thought to myself, as I got up and headed to the fridge for a
beer. After grabbing a cold Coors light from the fridge, I returned to the front room of my studio
apartment where my ex-girlfriend was asleep on the couch. Popping the lid off the beer, I said to
my ex-girlfriend “Sooo… I wonder if I pissed on your head if my headache would go away?”
“What did you say?” Sierra responded trying her best to pretend she hadn’t been awake
since my phone first rang as I had been.
“I knew you were pretending to be asleep…. Any way… I have a splitting headache. In part
because you woke me up last night at 4am asking me to crash on my couch, because the guy you
were fucking threw you out of his hotel room. Since it makes no sense what-so-ever to me that
you would decide that I your most recent ex-boyfriend want to hear, know, or participate in the
drama that is you sleeping your way through a who’s who of losers and deadbeats in the City of
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San Francisco, I figured I’d try using complete non-sense to get rid of my headache. Therefore, I
figured since my head hurts that if I pissed on your head, my headache would go away.” I said in
a tone which I hoped conveyed the fact that I wanted her to leave immediately, that I
disapproved of her using me and my place as a flop house, and of the fact that she purposely
rubbed the fact that she was out with another man in my face before falling asleep the night
before.
“How is pissing on me going to make you feel any better? That is stupid!” She snipped
back, as she sat up on the couch.
“Really???? As stupid of an idea as you coming here, because some guy tossed you out of
his hotel room last night? I mean it must be morning for stupid ideas, because I let you in to
sleep on my couch. I’ll take responsibility for my stupidity, but will you take responsibility for
yours and stop coming here just because you know I’ll always let you in out of concern for your
safety; if for no other reason!”
“You know what… Fuck it… If pissing on me like a dog will make you feel better about
yourself, then go right ahead. Besides, pissing on something means you own it!” She said as she
turned toward the mirror behind her, to do her make up.
“Jesus Sierra… Don’t you have any pride?”
“I’m fresh out. Besides the pissing on me thing sounds kind of kinky.” she said winking at
me via her reflection in the mirror.
“Well now you took all the fun out of it, if you’re going to enjoy it… You sick bitch!
Don’t you have any self-respect???? What are you even doing here?” I said swigging my beer.
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“What are you talking about?” She said finishing her lipstick and sitting back facing me.
The sight of her with her face even haphazardly thrown on and slept on hair still gave me pause,
as she was naturally very attractive with her petite figure, long reddish brown hair, and looks
which only seven years earlier at the age of twenty had got her face in several magazines as a
model, even if they were adult men-magazines. I thought to myself, even if for a few seconds, if
I was prepared to be as mean to her as I had been planning on being in order to get her to stop
coming to my apartment; as I seemingly always opened my door for her.
“What did you do last night?” I asked, even though she had drunkenly confessed hours
earlier, when she stumbled into my apartment.
“It’s none of your fucking business where I was last night! We’re not together any more,
and I don’t have to explain shit to you anymore!” She said back, in a snotty tone which
successfully brought forth the brunt of my full anger and disgust with her.
“That’s what I figured! Why don’t you get your trashy ass up off my couch, and get the
fuck out of here!” I said pounding in one swig 9/10 of a beer in only three gulps.
“Fine… I was coming here as a favor to you anyway!” She said, as she packed her purse.
“A favor? How is you coming here with another man’s dick on your breath any sort of
favor to me, you crazy bitch!”
“What… Are you a fag or something??? I’m a hot chick, and hella guys are dying to kick it
with me!” She said with a smug grin, fueled by vanity, and a belief she had just somehow
devastated me emotionally.
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“Yeah, I bet they do… Let me guess, nothing but motel six, and all the drugs and booze you
want, right?”
“No… They get me rooms at the Palace and Hilton Grand!” She said with a look of snobbery,
which made me laugh.
“Well, excuse me princes… I didn’t realize you were a high class whore now!” I said laughing
hysterically.
“Fuck you, Joel I’m no whore. Whores get paid!”
“Which makes them smarter then you, you slut! Is slut more appropriate? ” I said now
laughing even harder.
“You can’t talk to me like this…Watch what happens to you!!!” Sierra said turning red with
anger.
“What??? What are you going to do that you haven’t already done? First off if you’re in my
house, and I’ll talk to you any way I want! If you don’t like it, feel free to leave. Only one of us
has to be here, because this is HIS house. All other parties who are feeling some kind of way
about my opinions are free… Actually asked to leave immediately! Besides, what are you going
to do that you haven’t done already? Or should I say WHO are you going to do? I heard about
you, and what you’ve been doing since we broke up! You forget who I am, and how many
friends I have. Everybody knows me, and what’s worse every one knows you, and that you’re
connected to me. So I have to hear about every little slutty thing you do out there, because it
makes me look bad! Especially since I keep hanging out with you, and letting you back in here!
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You’re a fucking train wreck! Getting gang-banged by two or more guys at once?!? You fucking
disgust me!”
“It’s called running a train for your information!!!” She said it a scolding manner.
“Are you kidding me??? Get the fuck out of my house, you sorry ass slut! You just made me
puke a little bit in my mouth! Seriously, get out of here before my roommate or any one whose
opinion I care about sees you in here… Just go... Seriously, get the fuck out of my house!”
“Fine!!!” She yelled, as she walked out the front door, slamming it behind her!
“And don’t come back you skank!” I yelled after her!
“So, it’s going to be one of those days is it?” My roommate’s voice called from the other
room.
“Fuck Mike, I am sorry. Did we wake you up?” I asked feeling genuinely concerned.
“More or less… Your phone ringing actually woke me up. After that the dope-opera that is
you and Sierra kept me awake, no matter how hard I tried to block you two out.”
“So you heard it all?” I asked my roommate Mike.
“Which part? You mean the part where Sierra admitted to proudly accepting applications
for the position of Railroad Conductor from every doosh-bag with a bag of dope and a few
friends in the City of San Francisco?” Mike cautiously said, checking at my facial expression to
ascertain if my ex-girlfriends admitted hyper-promiscuity was a subject I was going to be OK
getting teased about.
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“Right…Chu...Chu…. It’s called running a train.” I mockingly said; in a serious tone as
Sierra had done only minutes before, trying to hold back my laughter.
“Well, at least you’re not beat up about it.” Mike said as he patted me on the back, and
passed to towards the bathroom.
“Fuck no… For once I started the fight to get rid of HER, because I have some one better
coming over.”
“I figured as much. So which one of your harem of concubines is coming over this early?
It must be one you really like to have her over at 8 am, and kick Sierra out!!! Who is it?” Mike
said with a curiousness one usually reserves for reading ‘who-done-it’ novels.
“Suzy. You know I have been trying to get with her forever, and thus far she keeps giving
me mixed signals.” I said digging into my closet looking for a suitable outfit.
“Suzy, huh… She’s hella cool.” Mike said.
“I actually like her, and we have a lot of similar interests and our personalities jive. Not
to mention she is super-hot!”
“She is that.” Mike said in agreement. “That’s why I don’t get why you let Sierra in
here? Suzy or any other woman isn’t going to want to hook up with any guy who they think is
sleeping with Sierra, at least not without a shot of penicillin first. I know a lot of girls who you
think are hot; who want or wanted to hook up with you… But then got scared or just turned off
because you were running around with Sierra. Everyone knows her reputation, and actually sees
what she does. That shit reflects on you, and people think you’re a sucker or a trick or
something; the way you carry on with her and tell people she’s your girlfriend. Because you tell
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people she’s your girlfriend, then later that day they see her G’ed out in a hotel room sucking
couple guys off. It doesn’t make sense. They think ‘Joel is a solid dude, who can get plenty of
chicks, why is he messing with this whore-bag.’ Or it makes people feel awkward because they
see her being a slut, and they’re either too afraid of you to say anything; don’t want to see you up
set, so they don’t say anything; they don’t want to get involved; or they’re afraid of what you’ll
do to the offending guy, and even worse what you’ll do to Sierra; so nobody says anything. But
everyone knows and sees, and as your roommate I’m telling you that shit hurts your reputation,
and that bitch doesn’t care about how she makes you look to other people.”
“I don’t give a shit what other people think about me, or how I live my life! And I have never
put hands on Sierra, for people to assume I’d beat her.” I growled trying to hide my anger at the
fact that I knew everything Mike was saying was true.
“Come on dude… You’re old-lady is supposed to represent you, help you, be a partner, and be
an equal. You want a woman, who makes your life easier and better, and not be a burden or a
problem. Think about it! How come you’ve dated Sierra on and off for three years, and you have
never brought her home to your Grandmother’s house to meet your family?”
“Honestly I’m afraid she’d try to steal the silverware, and try to fuck one of my brothers or
cousins.” I said, as we both chuckled.
“You laugh, but there’s some validity in what you said, otherwise you wouldn’t have had the
thought.” Mike said as he put a cigarette in his mouth.
“Who made you Doctor fucking Phil?” I asked jokingly, as I tossed Mike a cigarette lighter.
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“Wisdom comes with these gray hairs you see on my head. I better get some wisdom, cause I
sure as shit don’t have the money or social stature that’s supposed to accompany getting older
then forty-five.”
"I heard the shit out of that!” I said in loud agreement with Mike. “Anyway Mike, I have to
shit, shower, and shave before they get here." I said walking towards the bathroom.
"Yeah, you do, you smelly bastard. Normally alcohol is taken internally,"
"That bad huh?" I asked reaching the bathroom door.
"Just take a shower, and you'll be all good." Mike said returning to his room.
"Thanks sugar tits." I said in jest.
"No problem cupcake." Mike retorted, and with that I closed the bathroom door. The shower
gave me opportunity to reflect on a great many things. I thought about my relationship with
Sierra over the past three years, how fucked up her and I have been to each other, and then I
started to remembered some of the good times. I even remember how I first met her, on that hot
summer day. Letting the warm water splash down onto my head, I began to think about the day
that I first met Sierra three years prior. I asked myself “How the fuck did we come so far, and get
it so wrong?”
Then as if to answer my own question, some combination of being hung over, getting not
enough sleep, having three beers on an empty stomach, the warm shower water rolling down my
body, the fight with Sierra, and the conversation with Mike, caused me to zone out and just
stared at the water going down the drain. However, even though I was miles away and zoning
out, my mind did a weird thing and became super sharp. However, I couldn’t or wouldn’t focus
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on anything around me, instead the strange combination I mentioned before made my mind
answer my own question by making me remember everything that had happened the first time
we met, and made remember it as if it was I was actually there once again.
It was a hot summer’s day back in 2011, I was drunk as shit, angry as all hell, and worst of
all highly suicidal! “This is it! This is definitely the day I am going to off myself once and for
all!” I said to myself as I took another swig off my 40oz. beer which I was clutching in my right
hand, as my left hand was busy holding onto the safety rail-bar of the BART car I was in.
“Next stop… Civic Center/ UN Plaza!” The train conductor informed the passengers who
otherwise would be clueless where they were in the underground train-tunnel.
“They pushed me too far this time! This time I am going to kill one of these motherfuckers,
or preferably make those motherfuckers kill me once and for all!!!” I said to myself, as I took yet
another gulp of beer. “See, where these motherfuckers got you fucked up is they think you’re
scared, but what they don’t realize that I am more afraid these coward-ass crack dealers and
gang-bangers will leave me alive to suffer through and deal with the disaster that is my life
now!” I said to myself, as I looked at my reflection in the dark windows only a footway from
tunnel concrete. This somehow instantly made me realize that “I” was “THE” crazy drunk guy
talking to himself on this train! The two PM pick-up from 24th Street and Mission, headed to
Downtown and beyond, into the East Bay and Oakland, and “I” was literally “THAT GUY!”
“THAT GUY” is a theory that all my friends and I hold to be fact, laugh about, and even
dedicated a bit of suto-scientific, observation, and experimentation to. The theory is simple:
There is always at least one crazy drunk guy who is talking to himself on all BART trains at all
times. One of my friends is convinced that “THAT GUY’s” are actually undercover BART
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Police, and that’s why you always find at least one on every train. Without fail, should you ever
care to actually research our theory and actively look for “That Guy,” in and amongst the 10-15
train cars which make up and create BART trains. And by the way, the answer is yes we have
actually looked for him regularly. In fact, during the last summer of law school, two of my
friends and I actually created a log of sighting times, dates, and dress of the various “THAT
GUY’s;” in the army of “THAT GUY’S.”
The thought that should anyone else on that train be conducting a “THAT GUY” search that
they’d point to me and say, “Look there’s ‘THATGUY’ again drunk and talking to himself as
usual!” Only served to drive me deeper into the depression I was already feeling, and buy a few
more tickets to this pity-party I had been throwing myself since about 10am that morning!
However, on this particular day I was more than dealing with the usual anger at myself, for
allowing myself to lose my fiancé of two years, which prompted me to have to move not only
back to San Francisco but the Tenderloin District (By far the seediest and most dangerous part of
San Francisco at the time). Today I was mad at the world as well! Actually, more in particular I
was mad at the crack-dealing gangbangers who infested my block. The street gangs and drug
dealers had begun sending me death threats for working with the police, and because I had just
recently beat three of them in street fights. They couldn’t accept that one drunken’ Viking-Celt
(1/2 Swedish/ ½ Scots-Irish) would so disrupt their program, beat their supposed best, one after
another, not run, hold his ground, not call for police or friends to help, and as it was explained to
me later by a witness appearing as if I “were enjoying it” and “having fun.”
Somewhere in my drunken road to self-destruction I had helped found a local neighborhood
watch group, and was actively working with the SFPD in order to help them clear my block and
street of a crack-dealing gang of Latino Sudaneos and gang related blacks. Of course vigilantism
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was not an encouraged, or even known about by the police. However, with my new title of
“Block Captain” of the local neighborhood watch, I felt fairly secure in the notion I could beat
down or physically run off the block any crack-dealer or gang-banger without arrest from the
local black and whites. After-all these crack-dealing gangs had such a grip on my block that the
decent citizens that actually lived on the block had become complete prisoners in their own
homes, mostly out of fear of being a victim of one of the routine muggings that occurred almost
daily on my block. None-the-less the daily death-threats, constantly looking over my shoulder,
mixed with a bad case of alcoholism, and an even worse case of depression, had taken their toll
on me. I truly and literally wanted to die that day, and I wanted to take at least a few of these
sorts with me!
How I intended to commit suicide hit me almost simultaneously as the BART conductor
yelled “Civic Center… Civic Center,” as the train came to a stop in the station. “Suicide by
racism” I told myself! As I walked through the BART station towards the exit, I rationalized my
drunken plan to myself. “How perfect,” I thought to myself! “I will walk up to a group of the
most dangerous looking group of minorities I can find, and start spewing off the most vile and
racist shit I can contemplate until they are so enraged they attack and most likely kill me! That
way, I’ll be dead, and they’ll be in jail for the rest of their lives for murder. It’s even unique (At
least I have never heard of it being done.), and my death will be used to further help the
community! Last but not least, I will get to go down fighting with honor like a warrior!”
No sooner had I fully convinced myself of the brilliance of my asinine plan, when I saw my
group of unknowing and unwitting executioners standing in a group of twenty. I found the group
of twenty to thirty blacks, standing about fifteen feet outside the BART station exit on 8th Street
and Market! In search of death, I approached the large group of blacks hustling swag on the
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corner. I looked around to make sure I would have no rescuers, one last glimpse of the unlucky
few I had selected to grant me death, took a large swig of my brew, wiped the dribble from my
mouth, cleared my throat, and yelled to the large group “How are you jiggaboo’s doing today?
Making big profits with your nigger street bazar, full of the nice things you stole from innocent
hard working white-folks?”
“Why yes we are. You honkey, racist, redneck cracker; thanks for asking.” A voice said from
the large crowd of blacks. This was not the instant taking to violent and murderous rage I was
hoping to elicit from the group. In fact, they seemed barely shocked, perturbed, and nowhere
near angry. A fact I actually found infuriating, as my plan was to provoke a literal murderous
rage from the group. Frustrated but not detoured, I decided to continue my racial onslaught and
epithets. “So, looks like you’re selling everything under the sun. Where do you niggers hide the
watermelon and fried-chicken guy?” I said still trying to anger the group of blacks, standing on
Market Street.
“Hey Sean, this racist white-boy wants to buy a Tuesday Special from you.” One of the
group, said to another without batting an eye. Sean, the member of the group whom apparently
had ‘Tuesday Specials’ quickly reached into a cooler he was sitting on, and pulled from it a
bagged piece of friend chicken and in another clear bag cut-up, deseeded, and skinless
watermelon slices. “That’ll be three dollars honkey.” The one named Sean said, as he held out
the bagged up bird and melon for me to take.
Now angered at myself for insulting a group of people I realized are just trying to earn a
buck, as well as the fact that I was unable to provoke the murderous rage from the quick whited
group, I decided that I could get a bit more personal still. “Man, get that nigger food out of my
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face!” I said. This provoked a bit more of the response I was looking for as one of the group who
was sitting down, stood up, and said “ Hey white boy, what the fuck is your problem? What did
you watch one too many Dirty Harry movies, get you some courage juice, and decide you’d
come down here and try to bust some niggas’ up all by your lonesome? This ain’t the movies.
Why don’t you go on back to your country club or Klan rally or whatever, and leave us niggas’
alone before somebody ends up smoking your ass!”
Deciding that I was on to something, and may yet receive the fight to the death I so craved
I said, “Naaawww… I think I’ll sit right down on this wall here, and drink my beer with you
all… My new found friends.” As I took a seat on the wall, next to the group, they became
increasingly hostile and angry, as they kept insisting and demanding that I leave. However, I
strangely could not hear any of them anymore, and it seemed as if time stood still and all noise
had been blocked out. To this day I can’t explain the slowed down time or lack of sound, but as I
took a swig off my beer and looked to my left, sitting next to me was Jennifer aka Sierra.
It’s funny that I didn’t notice her sitting there when I approached the group or even when I
sat down on the concrete wall, because once our eyes met it was as if there was nothing in the
universe but her at that moment. “Where did you come from,” I asked the gorgeous woman with
long red curly hair.
“I have been here the whole time,” she replied.
“Are you sure? Because I swear it’s like you just appeared out of thin air?”
“Yeah, I’ve been sitting here for at least ten minutes or so. I am Jennifer, but they call me
Sierra. What’s your name?”
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“Joel, but some people call me Bunker.”
“Like a safety bunker?” She asked with a smile.
“No… Like Archie Bunker, a TV shows character from the 70’s.”
“Why, because you’re a racist asshole” an angry voice said, in a tone fit only for the
jungle?!?
“Oh shit… That’s right. I totally forgot!” I said, as I stood up pushing the owner of the angry
voices’ face back with my empty hand. “I kind of picked a fight with these guys, but I don’t feel
like doing that anymore. Do you want to get out of here, and allow me to buy you a drink
somewhere?” I ask Jennifer no longer seemingly hypnotized, and only now appraising the
situation we were in for real threat assessment.
“Which guys did you pick a fight with?” The beautiful redheaded, twenty-six year old, 135
lbs., 5’7, former model asked me, as she stood up, and adjusted her dress?
“These niggers.” I said now actually becoming angry that the group I had just purposely
started a fight with, was starting to now want to fight, inconveniencing my want to get to know
the beautiful young woman.
“Which ones?” She asked throwing her purse over her shoulder?
“All of them,” I said, grabbing her hand!
“Why?” She asked.
“That’s a conversation we can have later, once we’re out of here. Do you trust me?” I asked
her, with my eye on the crowd that had become angry and loud while I was in my trance.
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“Yes???”
“Good!” I said, as I pulled Jennifer towards me, while simultaneously pushing through the
crowd of angry black street merchants that had encircled Jennifer and me; until safely making it
to the other side of the mob.
“What did you do? And why didn’t they jump you?” Jennifer asked, looking back at the
crowd we just escaped from.
“What did I do? Not much, just pissed in their cornflakes a bit, but if they had any real
heart we wouldn’t have been walking away from that scene!”
“Corn flakes??? What are you talking about?” Jennifer asked, still getting pulled by me.
“Never mind. Let’s just say I am not my usual self today.” I said winking at her, as I
released her wrist. “Do you like to drink?” I asked the angelic looking read-head to my side.
“Of course I do.” She said with an evil grin.
“Want to get some beers, and go back to my pad?” I asked.
“Beer? Beer is for fags and prom-dates. I drink vodka.” She said in a tone that gave away
her obvious attempt to impress me.
“I knew there was something I liked about you. Vodka it is then for the lady.” I proclaimed
in my best impression of an English accent. She thought this was hilarious, and replied back in a
fake English accent of her own.
“Shall we pop up to your flat then? Have us a bit of vodka, and a good shag then?” The
woman said still in an English accent.
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“A proper shagging, then.” I said impressed with how real her fake English accent sounded,
in comparison to my obviously American attempt.
“I’m just kidding silly. I just met you. I’m not going to have sex with you; I don’t even
know anything about you.” The beautiful young woman said to me, realizing she had possibly
made an uncomfortable proposal.
To which I quickly replied, seeking to assure the attractive, young, redhead, is a sexy
summer dress. “My name is Joel Marshall Drotts. I am thirty-four years old. I just moved to San
Francisco six months ago from Sacramento, because my fiancé left me for some want to be rock
star. However, before I moved away I lived in San Francisco for ten years, but made the mistake
of leaving for two years to Sacramento to go live with my now ex-fiancé Michelle. I stayed in
the Mission District then, but when I tried to move back the rental market had increased so high
and so fast the Historical District is all I could afford. And yes I know there is no historical
district, but I actually live in the Tenderloin and don’t like telling people that because then they
get scared or creped out and don’t come visit me. Besides it’s technically not a lie, as the
Historical District is what the San Francisco City Tourist Board recently renamed the district. It
is actually the oldest part of the City after all, and almost every other building here is declared a
‘historical landmark.’ Most were built right after the1906 earthquake and fire. Some buildings
are from even earlier, and now it’s over ran with gangs and crack. Which I personally believe to
be the biggest waste and shame in the history of real estate ever! However, not everyone is OK
with the current state of affairs, and are fighting back through community watch groups. Some
people have even been known to do a bit of vigilantism, and randomly attack gang bangers or
crack dealers when one of them strays off from their gangs of cowards. The reason being is none
of them are very tough, brave, or knows how to actually fight. This is why they have to join a
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gang after all, to protect their faggoty, color claiming, and rag flying candy asses! All it would
take is one real gangster or real mafia hit-man to come down here, and their entire program and
world would get fucked-off!”
“Wow!!!!!! Strong opinion much? You’re not a cop are you?” Sierra asked, now wondering
if she had made the wrong decision in following me.
“Me? A cop? No, I am something else. I’m sorry I went off on a tangent. I was pissed about
most of this shit before I ran into you. The shit is taking its toll on me, and I swear crack dealers
and gang members are going to start randomly coming up missing, or dead tied up in alleys with
notes to the police and local community pinned to their bodies that simply says ‘One less piece
of shit floating in this toilet. You are welcome San Francisco!’” I could feel my anger and voice
both becoming excitedly amplified, as I spoke about one of major the reasons I was so angry and
fed up that day. I quickly looked at Sierra and smiled in an attempt to prevent her from running
away from me as fast as her dainty legs could take her. However, as I looked over at the
gorgeous woman, still walking by my side, instead of fear in her face all I saw was excitement.
“Well… You certainly have a lot going on in that brain of yours. Maybe I can help you get
your mind off things for a while?” The pretty redhead said, taking my hand as she smiled at me.
And that’s exactly what she did. We got that bottle of vodka, then another bottle, and then
another. We paid no bills, did no work, turned off our phones, and were alone just us three; her,
me, and our intoxications. Sierra and I stayed drunk and high on Percocet’s for a week straight,
humping each other’s brains out, talking and getting to know each other, ordering food, and
living like the world or our lives were going to end. However, at the end of that week instead of
the death I was so eagerly seeking the day I met Sierra, we emerged from my apartment and our
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hang overs with a new love. For me the introduction of new love quickly filled the void in me
that was making me long for death. Sierra had unknowingly given me a new lease on life. Who
would had guessed three years later we’d be here, fighting, like we hated each other?
“Joel…Joel, man how long are you going to be in the shower? I have to piss!” Mikes voice
yelling through the bathroom door, snapped me back to the here and now, and woke me out of
my memory laden day dream.
“My bad dude.” I said hopping out of the shower, and running towards my dresser. “Fuck,
Suzy is going to be here in twenty minutes.”
“You better hurry up douche-bag” said Mike, heading into the bathroom. “Hey… Why the
fuck is Suzy calling you to come over so fucking early in the morning anyway?” He yelled back
at me, down the hall, over the sound of his piss hitting the toilet water?
“Fuck if I know? But when a hotty like Suzy calls you, and wants to come over, you don’t
ask questions. Unless it’s to ask God almighty, why he has seen fit to blessed you with such good
luck this great day that would cause a hotty like Suzy to want to come hangout?” I said as I
continued to pick out my wardrobe for the day.
“Amen brother!!!” Mike said laughing.
20
Chapter Two
I barely had time to barrow a clean pair of sox from Mike, throw on my favorite blue jeans,
an all-black T-shirt, lace up my black police issue boots, grab another beer, clean the pad up, and
smoke a cigarette, when there was a knock at the door. I was sitting on the couch when Mike let
Suzy in. I could instantly tell something was wrong with her, “What’s wrong Suzy?”
“Yeah, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Mike said entering the room behind her.
“I don’t know, or I think I do…. But it doesn’t make sense.” Suzy said, shaking, with her
arms wrapped around her own shivering body. The way she had her arms folded and under her
tits, caused her breasts to lift up. This in turn started pushing the amazing cleavage showing
underneath her low cut shirt upward and outward, with an increasingly distracting obviousness. I
quickly broke the trance her half exposed breast her placing me into, as I didn’t want her to
realize her tits had me hypnotized. At least not yet any way, as she really seemed upset.
“Here sit down. Have you been partying hard sweetheart? Overdo it a bit last night?” I
said guessingly, as I took a blanket, throwing it around her shoulders, and guiding her to sit down
next to me on the couch.
“No… Well, yes… But no…. Have you seen Roxy tonight?” Suzy barely managed to
get spoken across her beautiful lips, which even in this state had me wanting to kiss them.
21
“Its 8am Hun. Do you know where you are?” Mike said looking at me grinning, and
gesturing as if he was smoking from an imaginary pipe; and then pointing at Suzy.
“I’m not crazy!!!” Suzy screamed at the top of her lungs, as she jumped to her feet,
and whirled around looking at Mike. I instantly jumped up, and tried to calm her down. I put the
blanket back around her shoulders, and sat her back down.
“No one said you’re crazy Cutie. You just seem confused, and are not communicating
very well right now. We just want to make sure you’re OK, is all. Now, just calm down, take a
deep breath, and tell us what happened from the beginning if you can remember. Maybe that will
make you feel better?” I said in as calm a voice as I possibly could. With this Suzy, buried her
face into my shoulder, and started crying hysterically. As she cried on my shoulder, rocking
herself back and forth, she just kept repeating to us and herself, “Where’s Roxy??? That didn’t
happen??? That’s impossible… Where’s Roxy??? What did I do????”
Finally after ten minutes of crying, Mike and I looking giving each other looks that
said “Why do the crazies always end up here?” and a couple shots of whiskey, Suzy had calmed
herself down. Finally having her wits about her Suzy began to explain to Mike and I exactly
what happened, how she ended up at our house at eight AM, and why she was in the state that
she was in. Suzy began by asking us, “Have you ever heard of the Autumn Theater Troop?”
“Yeah, they’re always beefing with the Fall and Summer Theater Troops,” Mike said
in his usual sarcastic voice.
“I’M SERIOUS!!!” Suzy screamed at Mike.
“OK… Calm down. It was just a joke. What the hell happened to you Suzy?” I asked.
22
“I was trying to tell you, before I was interrupted.” Suzy said pouring herself another
shot of Jameson. “As I was saying have you ever heard of the Autumn Theater Troop?” She
asked looking at Mike and me. We in turn looked back at Suzy shaking our heads, with the
answer of no. “Okay so the Autumn Theater Troop is apparently one of these alternative and
quasi-underground Theater Troops, which utilize all these little old theater halls in the
Tenderloin and other districts.”
“What small old theater halls?” Mike asked.
“I thought you did security. You’ve never worked any of these little performing spaces
for an event?” I said taking a swig off my third beer.
“Shut the fuck up, who got you the bouncer gigs you have now?”
“You did Mike. Anyway, let’s just say that you were not a total moron, and knew
anything about the history of San Francisco. You would know that we are the oldest city in
California, and most certainly the oldest on the west coast. See, when Colonel Sutter’s second in
command John Marshall discovered gold up there at Sutter’s Mill in 1840 something, San
Francisco was already a major Spanish held asset under the control of General Vallejo.
California was a part of Mexico. However, once gold was found in California, it was over. San
Francisco literally would double in size of population every two months often times, especially
during summer months, through some of the 1840’s to 1870’s. It was the only deep water port
and natural harbor on the west coast, so when gold was discovered you could get to San
Francisco from the east coast one of two ways. You could literally walk across the country with
all your belongings, on what was called the Oregon Trail, if you remember from kindergarten; or
you could catch a boat and sail around South America and up the Coast. This was actually the
23
preferred and considered safer method, until the transcontinental railroad was finished. However,
remember gold was on every one mind, so people would come from Australia, China, Russia,
Italy, and all over the globe to mine for gold. All those people passed through or stayed in San
Francisco, on their way elsewhere in the gold country. Remember who these people were too.
Many of them were criminals trying to make a new start; people who failed on the East Coast;
and everyone had to be tough; because the trip to San Francisco itself could kill you. Once you
were here, it wasn’t much better some times. Think about the fact all the streets in San Francisco
are named after vigilantes from that time period, and these guys who formed these groups called
Committees of Vigilance. These were a precursor to the police department, but what they really
were mob-bosses who scared people into not acting like assholes in their particular districts.
Street gangs full of adults basically. Each Committee, which often fought with each other for turf
so they could collect protection taxes from store owners and residences alike, controlled their
own districts. This is how we actually get our original districts here, and the names of those
districts.”
“Well thanks Bill Nye the Science Guy, but what the fuck does that have to do with
their being a bunch of old theaters?” Mike said sarcastically.
“Because with all these different people coming here, they wanted entertainment, so
there are literally about a hundred mini-theaters of all sizes scattered through-out the city of San
Francisco, some of them still having parts, rooms, and even more in them from the 1800’s? At
least the ones that didn’t get knocked down in the 1906 earthquake, and what Suzy is saying is
that there are various theater troops around town that use these theaters to show plays and shows.
Hence the ‘theater district’ dummy!”
24
“Wow… Joel. Pretty impressive, Joel, and here I always thought you were just a
dumb jock.” Suzy said smiling at me, as she continued with her story. “Actually, Joel’s right, and
one of the biggest of these theater groups is called the Autumn Troop. Well Roxy and I went out
to the bars last night, over on Mason Street in the theater district. We were at one of the bars,
when we met this group of what seemed to us like the most amazing people ever. I don’t know if
it was the booze or the drugs, but Roxy and I were just drawn to them. I mean it was almost
supernatural how just drawn to and connected with this group of people about our age we felt we
were.”
“Wait OUR age, or Mike’s age? You realize he’s almost a geriatric. Just earlier he asked
me to go to the store for him, because he was running out of depends undergarments.” I said to
Suzy.
“Fuck you.” Mike retorted.
Now giggling and smiling a bit Suzy continued, “No, more our age. No one was older
than thirty-five, so it looked, but after you hit twenty-one we’re just all adults and I don’t trip off
of age; except when someone is as ancient as Mike here.” Suzy said, punching Mike in the arm
to let him know she was joking.
“Anyway, so you ran into this group of supermodels with comedian personalities, and then
what?” Mike asked, still butt hurt about the age jokes.
“See, that’s just it. They WERE NOT supermodels, and in all reality I don’t remember
them saying anything particularly witty or charming. I mean they weren’t ugly and were cute
enough, but we were weirdly so into them. It’s like we were being brainwashed or something.”
25
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.” I said waiving my hand like I was Obey
One-Kenobi from the movie Star Wars. Suzy laughed at this.
“Yeah pretty much, it’s like we were Jedi-mind tricked into thinking these people were
just amazing, that we had to be around them, and would do almost anything they asked out of
some unexplained need for their approval.”
“Are you getting insecure these days, Suzy?”
“I know right. I don’t know why I would give two shits what this group of strangers
thought about me, and I certainly don’t now. It is freaking weird. Anyway, so this group of what
we thought were just these amazing people, were sitting at a booth at one of the clubs we were
in. It turns out they all belong to the Autumn Acting Troop. So after having a couple drinks with
this group of three guys and four girls, they invite us back to their theatre house down on Turk
Street.”
“I’m surprised you guys didn’t get mugged. Turk Street is pretty rough.” I said,
sheepishly hoping Suzy didn’t catch me staring down her shirt again.
“I know right??? I was tripping off of it to. We’re down on Turk and Jones no less.
However, these ‘Actors’ were walking through the deep hood, and it actually seemed as if the
thugs and dealers were scared of them. We got to the play house, which from the front doesn’t
look like that much, but on the inside is all cool and old timey. They said it was one of the oldest
play houses in San Francisco. Any way, we started to party on stage, doing a bunch of molly,
weed, booze, and I don’t know… I must have passed out or something. The entire night seems
like a blur, but when I came to….. I saw….. OH GOD!!! ROXY, I JUST LEFT HER
THERE….”
26
“What are you talking about!!!? What happened? What did you see? What happened to
Roxy?” Mike exclaimed, becoming increasingly excited with every question.
“It’s impossible…. It can’t be…..”
“It’s OK Suzy; just tell us what you saw?” I said taking her hand and gently rubbing her
arm.
“You’re going to think I am crazy???”
“No we won’t Hun, just tell us what happened?” I said, trying to sooth her.
“She was getting eaten!” Suzy said, looking at Mike and me to see how her comment
would be received, by the two half-awake and buzzed men in front of her.
“Right on!!! She was getting eaten out in front of everyone…. All right!!! Fucking
Roxy is a freak!!! Where is that chick???” Mike said, contemplating a night of passionless sex
and drugs.
“Did I say eaten out, you idiot??? No, I said eaten!” Suzy said in a tone that let us know
she was as serious as a heart attack about her claims.
“All right honey… You had us going there. Play time with Joel and Mike is over. You
deserve an academy award…. Hey Joel, you getting a load of this chick and her story?”
“I’m fucking SERIOUS YOU ASSHOLES!!!!” Suzy screamed at Mike, as her
body started to shiver again.
“Ok… Suzy… Just calm down. Is it possible you just think you saw them eating her?
Do you understand how what you’re saying sounds? What do you mean by that any way? Like
27
Hannibal Lecter style, Zombie ‘I need brains style,’ or vampire sucking your blood style?” I
asked, citing the only cultural references on the subject I had… The movies.
“Yeah vampire style. Only their faces changed? I mean they were the same people that
we met at the bar, only their faces changed and were ugly and deformed, but with fangs. They
were biting Roxy on her neck and arms and legs.”
“What was Roxy doing? She wasn’t screaming in pain? If these people were eating her
why wasn’t she screaming?” I asked trying to snap the attractive young woman back into reality,
by pointing out logical problems with her story.
“I don’t know maybe she was asleep, or drugged, or…. OH God… Already dead!” Suzy
said, as she began to cry again hysterically.
“We’ll be right back, Suzy…. Hey Mike can I talk to you in the kitchen? I said.
“OH YEAH…” Mike said in a voice that told me he was thinking about the same
things I was, and we definitively needed to have a confab in the kitchen about the mental state of
our guest. I laughed to myself about it, as I stepped into the kitchen behind Mike, and closed the
door.
“So Mike, what do you think? Suzy needs to see a shrink or something, right? She really
thinks she saw this shit happen?” I said seriously concerned about Suzy’s mental state.
“She doesn’t need a shrink, she needs rehab bro. You heard her. All those drugs, Molly,
and who knows what else, just waking up. It might have been a dream or a hallucination. Who
knows…? The bitch is whacked either way?” Mike said as he opened the fridge, and checked to
see what if any food we had in the house.
28
“Oh really, the bitch is whacked? Is that your expert medical opinion Dr. Oz? Of
course she’s whacked, but on what, why, and how? Do you think she’s just coming down and
having an episode?” I asked Mike for his assessment of Suzy’s mental state.
“Oh yeah…. Screw an episode. That bitch had the whole season!”
“It’s not that sort of episode idiot…” I said laughing, and taking another swig off my
beer. Then I continued, “Ok, so check it out, here is the plan. You take the whacked bitch to the
hospital and get her checked out, and I’ll go over to this theater and see if there is any sign of
Roxy or Vampires…. Moah.. ha...ha…” I said to Mike, ending my sentence in my best fake evil
Transylvanian accent sarcastically.
“Why do I have to take the whacked out bitch to the hospital?” Mike said in protest.
“Fine… I’ll take the whacked out bitch, with the amazing rack, to the hospital, and you
go over to Turk and Mason, where all the brothas selling crack, pimping hoes, and other random
thugs all like to hang out and do their thing to look for Roxy.”
“You know what Joel, I thought about it, and I think I like the original plan. I’ll take the
whacked out bitch to the hospital, and you go see if there is any sign of Roxy.” Mike said,
realizing the two options more clearly.
“That’s what I figured. Now come on. Let’s go get Suzy up to speed, and see if we
can’t do someone some good today.” I said walking out of the kitchen.
“Let’s try to do some good today,” Mike repeated in a sarcastic hero’s voice.
“Shut up queerbait” I replied, as I walked down the hall.